


Wings

by missbeizy



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2768675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all visions of grandeur until it's real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings

It's an alien landscape. It might as well be, the way Sean sees it, because it's nothing that he's ever seen up close. But maybe not. Maybe it's like one of those "please touch" museums with butterfly rooms. Sure, it's pretty and it's there and you'll get used to the fact that _you're allowed_ after a while. But in any case you feel silly, walking past the heavy plastic door flaps to stand in the middle of a room hushed with the noise of hundreds of sets of whispering wings. 

And who the hells knows what shift in the cosmos has put him here, alone, with the Master of the Beach House and his chocolate brown eyes calling for some touching of his own. The afternoon seems decades away--and reality along with it. It could be the ocean and the way the house seems not to belong where it is, teetering gently just beyond the brave reach of sand and the scruffy plants that force their way up through it. It could be the lighting; the suffused carrot-tinged yellow that covers every surface. It could be the way the beer bottles sweat rings of chilly damp onto the patio table or the way their soggy labels shift under your fingers and eventually tempt you to pick at them.

It's been years, sure, and Orlando had always talked about going back and buying that house he spent the first half of the shoot living in. Flying down had been easy, especially since Sean's between projects. They managed to snag Dom and Billy en route to vacation, too, and convince them to trade in their Brazil tickets for New Zealand ones. 

It's been years, sure, and despite the ring-shaped tan line on his right hand, he's no longer attached to its significance. The parallel is the same and yet not the same; this past afternoon is so far removed from this present evening just as three years ago is separated from the present year. But perhaps that's the beer talking.

Orlando comes from inside the house and up behind Sean, large palms with those deliciously tapered fingers taking residence on either shoulder. Considerably less soft now that Sean has said his goodbye to the last of the Sam weight. Orlando kind of misses it, even though he knows how much Sean hated being out of shape. And the new haircut was sort of a shock. ("Something's different. No, hang on. Don't tell me. You've had a lift somewhere!" Duck the playful punch, drown in that smile.) 

"You're quiet." He tightens the hold, disturbing muscle.

"Mm." _Clink_ goes the beer bottle on the table; awake comes a nighttime breeze carrying the tang of salt and something bitter.

"Reckon we should've gone with them?"

Sean shrugs. "Didn't feel like it two nights in a row. Did you want to?"

Orlando sits next to Sean, folding up his long legs. He looks smoothly fantastic to Sean's eyes, decked in creamy colors and rebelliously long curls. "I would've. But this is just as good." That YM-cover smile makes an appearance. "Besides, I missed you, man. How's it been?"

"Different," Sean admits. His eyes invariably stray to the bare ring finger. "But not the way I thought it would be." Another shrug. "Everyone thinks they're above it, you know? We're not like those couples. What could possibly happen to us? And then it happens and it makes perfect sense. Love ends all the time. And when you're never home. And then when you are home but exhausted. I was putting all I had left into the kids. Then one day, things start to go bad. Chris stops being supportive. Accuses me of being the dad so much that I stopped being a husband. I guess she was right. Maybe I didn't want to be the husband anymore."

Orlando has sat, transfixed and listening, with his left leg bouncing and teeth biting at his upper lip. Another breeze knocks a wayward curl across his eyes and he pushes it away. "Whatever the reason, it does happen. You can't blame yourself or it'll eat away at you. Just have to move on, yeah?" He has a hand on Sean's knee. His fingers burn through the cloth as if it was made of paper (wings).

 

The comfort is centrally located in his hands, as always. He uses them to their fullest capacity in all things, be it play or passion or a combination of the two. It starts where and when it can; a smoothing palm over Sean's hair, a massaging squeeze at the base of his neck, a press to the belly at the end of a long embrace. The demonstrations are interspersed with beer, a malty sharp taste that goes down dry. The smell on Orlando's skin is a dangerous blend of liquor residue and cologne; a recipe for instant one-night stand, Sean thinks.

Well, he doesn't really _think_. If he were doing that, they wouldn't be on the living room floor wrestling around like ten-year-old boys. If he were doing that, he wouldn't be intentionally losing with the hopes of getting pinned. Or, you know, letting the idea of how beautiful Orlando's smile get to him. Neither man is surprised when Orlando wins.

"You're all bones now, Hobbit." Orlando catches his breath, throat muscles flexing. 

"You were _always_ all bones, Elf," Sean retorts, fingers threading up through Orlando's hair before he can stop them. He takes pleasure in the way Orlando closes his eyes and tingles under the petting. Sean spreads his fingers over as much scalp and neck as he can manage.

"Tease," Orlando finally mutters, a spray of cinnamon across his forehead and a half-playful half-nervous chuckle on his lips.

Sean stares at that mouth and thinks _rose pudding_ for some insanely obscure reason. Later he'll blame the Fosters. At the moment he guesses it's a good enough description. It doesn't take much to bring Orlando's face down and he does, hesitating for only a brief second before guiding their mouths to touch.

It's a press and then an adjustment of angle that comes with exhale- _damp_ -inhale just before Orlando's bottom lip falls and takes Sean's mouth with confidence. There's a sound in there somewhere but both lose track of it as a parade of squished lips and searching tongues mingle.

A blaze as Orlando's mouth strikes out on its own, leaving a trail of damp, reddened skin from Sean's jaw to the curve of his neck. There is a naughty smile on Orlando's lips that curls into an equally naughty grin when he simultaneously breathes into Sean's ear and curls a hand between Sean's thighs. "I've wanted to do that--" sweep sweep goes the fingers "--all--" swivel goes the wrist as the hand makes out the shape and wraps around "--night."

Now it's Sean's turn to wear darker colors (markings) and he does, feels it come up under his flesh and welcomes it. It's so nice to feel. And does it ever _feel_ ; through the cloth that hand that has always been ever ready to comfort strokes, base to tip a dozen times until even the loose cotton of Sean's pants is restrictive. He watches himself swell, watches the length of flesh outlined darkly by his pants, disappearing over and over behind Orlando's hand; fine swish of palm against cloth.

Bites come against his neck and shoulder and Orlando is cursing the button that clings to its linen hole. The slender, fine zipper slivers open easily enough. Boxers are merely pushed down and shirt shifted upward and he's down there, just like that, the tip of his nose dragging down the flat of Sean's hip and then inward, disappearing into the hollow between thigh and pelvis. Draws Sean's eyes up in his head just before his eyelids close over: that motion, that vision, soft as tissue (wings).

Mouth drops open and the rush of sensitivity has layers. First the tingle that comes with edges of ticklish awareness, then a washed prickle of an electric sort, then a more solid rush of instability that will later become a lead ball. The three waves blend as Orlando's mouth swallows and goes hollow with effort, blend until they form a unified sensation that holds the single-minded intention of _unraveling_. It's age-old and it's rhythmic and it's goddamn beautiful the way it works, that particular noise of wet mouth going endlessly, the way he breathes through his nose and tucks his lips back over his teeth carefully.

Thighs spread and pelvis rocks up off the floor into and between those gorgeous lips and he allows Sean to do that. Heat bubbles and expresses itself in the form of sweat--plinks of water on tin falling from some high place (wings)--slicking his lower back and face. Hands lose their place when he gets closer; they shift from the floor to Orlando's neck to his hair and back again. Little noise but the breathing is indication enough and just before he comes he lays his head back and moans a warning noise (and of course Orlando's heard it before, the kind that crescendos tellingly) and squirms to be released from the hot dampness of that mouth if Orlando wants. He only fists Sean faster, a relentless determination clearly stated, and Sean has to look, has to see himself balanced just inside Orlando's mouth, pink tongue the only support, has to see--

He doesn't see; at least, not for the ten seconds during which his body's release strikes him blind. Stars careen out of alignment with glorious fanfare under his eyelids and he realizes with some embarrassment that had he sobbed out his pleasure. 

Nothing like the slow playing out of aftershocks as Orlando draws out whatever's left with long, hard suckles. And then the limp feeling, the muscles turned to jelly feeling--wonderfully reliable. 

Clothes askew, Sean feels Orlando climb back up his body, feels the sharp edge of his own taste when they kiss. He stares up into Orlando's face, keeping his vision blurred. Orlando's eyelashes flicker rapidly (wings). Sean reaches up and takes that angled jaw between his fingers and rolls them over until he has Orlando's body under his. He closes his eyes and smoothes the quivering skin of Orlando's eyelids still, dismissing the image; and instead turns his mind to truer things.


End file.
